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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699374">and you're longing for an arm to stay you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamiaCalls/pseuds/LamiaCalls'>LamiaCalls</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A cooks a dish they hate/don't eat just because they know B loves it, F/M, Food, One-sided pining, POV Second Person</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:40:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,211</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamiaCalls/pseuds/LamiaCalls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re baking me a cake?” she says, gasping. Her smile is like the best knife to the chest you ever felt. “But you don’t even like sweet things.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Nygma/Harleen Quinzel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Bulletproof 20/21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and you're longing for an arm to stay you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/gifts">APgeeksout</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">She’s still in the shower while you pour the batter into tins, knock the sides to get the bubbles out, get them into the oven. You’re lucky she always takes her time in the bathroom, so you don’t have to rush.</p><p class="p1">“Whatcha making?” she asks from the bathroom door. She’s got a towel wrapped around her, and one more holding her wet hair aloft. You never know how she makes it defy gravity like that. There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know with her, and you’re too afraid to ask. As the saying goes, cowardice maketh the man.</p><p class="p1">“You wanted cake last time,” you say. You shrug, hope it comes off casual, even if you’ve never been casual your whole life. “I didn’t have any.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re baking me a <em>cake</em>?” she says, gasping. Her smile is like the best knife to the chest you ever felt. “But you don’t even <em>like</em> sweet things.”</p><p class="p1">“Well, you know,” you say because what the hell else are you meant to say?</p><p class="p1">She seems to hear the hidden confession in your words anyway, that grin turning up a notch as she comes to lean against the kitchen counter across from you.</p><p class="p1">“Oh Eddie,” she says, her voice thick, her eyes sparkling, your heart seizing. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”</p><p class="p1">You shut your eyes. Take a breath. Your heart is pumping. Your hands are sweating. You want to be sick. You know she knows. This isn’t the first time she’s even brought it up.</p><p class="p1">So many things you can keep hidden behind puzzles. But this, this, you’re too damn obvious. Hell, even Selina brought it up the last time you saw her, at Jonathan’s party. You had to spend most of the rest of the night avoiding her: it wasn’t too hard, it’s not like you two are friends or something, not really.</p><p class="p1">You just have to hope it doesn’t get back to the wrong person. To him.</p><p class="p1">She leans across the counter, pecks you on the cheek, and you hate the sly grin that slides onto your lips but you can’t help it.</p><p class="p1">“I’m gonna get dressed.”</p><p class="p1">“Whatever you want,” you say. You mean about your wardrobe, but. But.</p><p class="p1">She takes her sweet time in there too, always does. The first time she stayed, after a particularly bad fight with “J”, you watched her paw through your clothes, questioning your choices, laughing at some of your more, eh, eccentric choices. So what if half your wardrobe is question mark covered?</p><p class="p1">The third time, you just couldn’t believe she was still surprised by any of it, but she couldn’t seem to help herself looking.</p><p class="p1">But after that, you stopped watching. It made you feel things, to know she wanted to know the tiny details of you, the choices you made, all these things that give you the illusion of— of— something. Something.</p><p class="p1">You concentrate on the cake anyway. It’s a chocolate cake. You’re not sure what her favourite kind is, but it seems a worthy guess. And easy to make. You make buttercream, spread it on as thick as you think she’ll want it. Taste a bit. Grimace at the cloying sweetness.</p><p class="p1">But her face is a picture when she comes out. She doesn’t even notice — or pretends, perhaps, at this point, not to notice — you looking her up and down.</p><p class="p1">She’s got one of your purple shirts on, baggy and hanging down to mid-thigh. She looks ridiculous and adorable and like the shirt was made for her and like you never should have worn it in the first place. You want to grab her, feel the shape of her under the billowing sleeves, breathe in the scent of her, freshly showered and you, freshly laundered, mixed together.</p><p class="p1">Instead, you do some foolish thing with your hands, and half-jokingly say, “ta-da!”</p><p class="p1">You were never this whimsical before. You don’t know if you like it. But you like the way her eyebrow twitches as she takes you in.</p><p class="p1">“Is it ready?” she says.</p><p class="p1">You plate a slice for her, watch as she takes a forkful, closes her eyes. She’s always so dramatic when she eats and you hang on every minute movement of her jaw, every twitch that seems like it could be a smile of satisfaction.</p><p class="p1">“Shit, Eddie,” she says, eyes snapping open. “That’s good cake.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah?” you say.</p><p class="p1">It’s baking a cake. It’s not like you actually did anything of value. Didn’t catch anyone. Didn’t foil a plan or come up with some clever riddle. You followed a recipe and shoved it in the oven.</p><p class="p1">But you still feel pride worming its way through your gut.</p><p class="p1">“You gotta try some,” she says, waving a fork in your face. “It’s so good!”</p><p class="p1">You shake your head, but you can’t refuse her, never could.</p><p class="p1">You make a face as the overly sweet, overly rich cake hits your tongue.</p><p class="p1">“Your loss,” she says, smiling to herself. “Gonna eat this whole thing and fall asleep.”</p><p class="p1">You wash up as she eats, noisy and messy as always. You know this won’t be the last time you cook her something — that is, if she actually comes again.</p><p class="p1">But she will, you tell yourself. She has to. You don’t know what you’d do if she stopped coming.</p><p class="p1">It’s infatuation. You know that. You know you shouldn’t be feeling it. But every atom of you aches when she’s not around, and aches even worse when she’s there. It’s a sickness, almost obsession, but not quite at that tipping point yet. You know the cliff is only three feet in front of you but you’ve held yourself back so far. Probably for not much longer, though.</p><p class="p1">Not when she looks at you like that, face propped up on her hands, some chocolate smeared on the corner of her mouth.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks, Eddie,” she says, her voice even. None of the teasing, no devilish look in her eye. “I mean it. It means a lot, that I have somewhere to go when— Well, you know when.”</p><p class="p1">You nod.</p><p class="p1">“I know,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p class="p1">“You know,” she says, looking at you side-on. You always know trouble is brewing when she does that. There are very things Harley can’t say while looking you in the eye. She’s not like you.</p><p class="p1">“What do I know?” you say, slowly. You turn away, concentrate on scrubbing out the cake tin.</p><p class="p1">“You oughta get yourself a girl, Eddie, or a boy,” she says. You see her shrug out of the corner of your eye. “Get someone you can bake cakes for and who’ll bake a cake for you.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t like cake,” you say. You don’t say that you already have a person to bake for.</p><p class="p1">She sighs, big and loud.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t be a prat, Eddie,” she says. “You know what I meant.”</p><p class="p1">You stop your scrubbing. Take a deep breath.</p><p class="p1">“I know.”</p><p class="p1">“So you’ll do it? You’ll look for someone?”</p><p class="p1">You turn back to her. She’s looking at you, eyes wide, obviously hopeful.</p><p class="p1">And you can’t refuse her, so you have to lie.</p><p class="p1">“Sure, Harley,” you say. “I’ll look for someone.”</p><p class="p1">You’re not sure what hurts more: that look of relief that passes over her, or the fact that you’re just happy to see her smile.</p>
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